"Does it hurt?" I say. "The cuffs."
He shakes his head. Small. Minimal. He's conserving everything.
The common room is empty. The afternoon light comes through the far window at an angle, hitting the floor, making the institutional space look almost like somewhere a person could live.
He's right here. The distance he keeps — not walls the way Gray had walls, something quieter than that, careful managed space — is gone. He's looking at me like he's been waiting to look at me like this since the first time I came to the fence and sat down on the cold ground.
"Mate," he says.
One word. Low. From somewhere underneath language.
The pull between us blazes.
"Mine," he says. And then, rougher: "Need."
I take a step toward him.
RJ's breathing has changed. He's watching me with a burning steady gaze and I can feel through what runs between us exactly how much it's costing him. The chain at his wrists. The wall behind him. Everything in him straining toward me and nowhere to go.
I close the distance and press my hand flat against his chest and feel his heart slamming under my palm.
"I know," I say. "I know."
He makes a sound. Low. Rough. Nothing like a word.
I reach up and pull his face down to mine and kiss him.
He can't hold me. His hands are behind him and the chain won't give and he can't reach and I can feel the frustration of it inthe sound he makes against my mouth — not anger, something more desperate, the anguish of a man who wants and can't. His mouth moves against mine and it's hungry and careful at the same time, wanting everything and terrified of taking too much.
I pull back. Look at him.
"I need you," I say.
His jaw works.
I hold his gaze and drop to my knees.
***
His breath catches.
I reach for him — careful, deliberate, looking up at his face the whole time — and he watches me with those burning eyes and doesn't look away. Can't. Won't.
He is already so hard. Leaking from just our kiss. I pull the drawstring and then his length is in my hand — and I press my mouth to him and he groans, low, rough, from somewhere he doesn't usually let anything out of. His hips shift barely and I take my time because this is the only thing I can give him right now. This. Present. Here.
His taste is everything to me. I am aware of his every movement and sound. I wish I could feel his large hands cradling my face, stroking my jaw as I bring him pleasure — but I feel him through what runs between us instead. Yearning and need and the specific satisfaction that I am close, that I am here, that he is not alone in this.
He says my name once, broken, when he comes.
Just that.
I stand up.
He's still against the wall, chest heaving, the burning in his eyes changed now — still there, still him, but something in it has softened.
I step close and press my face into his chest.
He can't hold me. His hands are behind him and there's nothing he can do and I can feel him straining against the chain. His face turns toward my hair. He breathes.
